


Precious Little Fragile Things

by disillusioned_beauty



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: AU, Abuse, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Cheryl Blossom Needs a Hug, F/F, Gen, Self-Harm, tw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:47:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24171562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disillusioned_beauty/pseuds/disillusioned_beauty
Summary: Cheryl blossom can be accused of being many things: selfish, vain, heartless, cruel. Whatever seeds of truth they may hold Cheryl blossom is above all else a broken girl... and a masterful liar.
Relationships: Cheryl Blossom/Toni Topaz
Comments: 7
Kudos: 36





	Precious Little Fragile Things

**Author's Note:**

> I think Cheryl blossom is a far more multifaceted character than anyone gives her credit for and far more complicated that we know.  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> I've never written a fic before and admittedly have no idea what I'm doing but here's to quarantine induced psychosis. This could most definitely be better and is far from where I want it but I figured it would serve me better poorly written and posted than poorly written and buried in my hard drive for all eternity. I don't have a beta reader and I can't proof read worth a damn so if its absolute trash please feel free to let me know! I don't know if this is going to be a full multi-chapter fit or a one shot, I suppose that's up to you!

With a solid thump Cheryl’s fired arrow buries itself alongside the two dozen others already impaling the target bearing the infamous Blossom crest. Dropping her bow arm Cheryl looked on at her work, admiring her tight grouping while berating her foolishness for having added to her ever growing number of arrows to be thrown into a discard pile of those ruined in her fury and haste. She never bothered to retrieve them from their found target anymore, instead firing arrow after arrow until her quiver and rack are bare, two dozen and a spare all grouped so tightly together that the fletchings have rubbed off or broken completely, the points dulled and shafts bent at the impact of others grazing them, rendering all but maybe a spare few useless. Some were buried so deep they would need to be broken in two to be removed, the blood red feathers stuck halfway in the target from the force of their firing. It was not unusual for her to go through half a dozen full sets of arrows on a leisurely day of practice, easily finding the center of her target with arrow after arrow until she had gone through them in less than a few hours using one of her bows with a lighter draw weight. Today was not leisurely. With a heavy sigh she turned, taking in the eleven other targets set around the acre wide circle, each filled with another two dozen and a spare embedded in their insignias now blocked out by thick bunches of shafts and feathers obscuring them.

Cheryl’s arms burn like fire, both her shoulder blades seizing and muscles quivering in exhaustion. Another three hundred arrows, so expertly handcrafted and made with extreme care and craftsmanship now as good as trash with one draw and lose. Cheryl can scarcely remember when she received her first bow, struggling with the fifteen pound draw weight. Her thin, frail arms shook with exertion, struggling to pull the small recurve bow’s string back, finally fully extending the taunt string just to have her trembling fingers wrapped around it uncurl, the bow dry firing and snapping her on her unprotected forearm. It left her pristine ivory skin painted black and blue for weeks, sending painful searing heat through her hand and fingers every time she would use her non-dominant hand even long after the large bruise had faded. It hurt much less than the summer she had turned 12, running inside with blood dripping down her face and tears falling from her eyes from her pain of the string snapping back across her cheek when she leaned down a little too far and pulled up a little too fast when restringing her newest bow only to have it pop with the tension. The cut itself hurt much less than the beating she received for the infraction of marring her face, her back even more bloodied from her mother beating her new bow she was so proud of over her until the polished wood finally broke. Her parents had told those in town that she was spending the rest of the summer at a stay away all girls camp when in reality she had been sent upstate to receive treatment after treatment of painful lasers and pinching needles filled with smoothing serum applied to the thin line across her face until it completely disappeared. By the time school started up again her pretty Blossom face was as flawless as ever, her hidden back still left with a few oozing marks that simply refused to heal despite her vigilant appliance of salves and creams. She had come home to a brand new bow, identical to the one her mother broke over her back along with a new quiver and set of arrows awaiting her in her armory. That half a dozen bows and thousands of arrows ago.

Walking back to her armory she left the targets and arrows where they stood along with the empty racks that an hour ago had been filled with hundreds of arrows, knowing that by tomorrow the sole groundskeeper will have it cleared and ready for her the next time she decided she wished to visit. Her mother never bothered her anymore when she disappeared in her red cloak and stone face, making the long trek from Thislehouse to Thornhill’s grounds, a shell of ashes and untamed wilderness save for the immaculately kept cemetery and what had become her own archery range after she had expanded her talents past the short range setup that Thislehouse’s significantly smaller property allowed years ago. She would still set up a spare target and practice with increasing frequency to disturb her mother's numerous male callers at the smaller estate but that was mere child’s play intended to scare off the weakest of Penelope’s “clients”. Cheryl reserved her true talents for the abandoned shell of her old home, the charred ruins of her own making provided her with a comfort the exquisite, cold mansion never did, instead harboring painful memories and shaking nightmares.

Entering the armory, she reached for her stringer and expertly removed the taunt bow sting from the limbs, her muscles screaming in protest at the action. She placed the unstrung bow back in its place, right at eye level on its velvet lined pegs. It was the redhead's favorite bow by far: black and red maple limbs with cherry wood inlay. It had been a gift from Jason, though she herself had designed it, sketching out its design and perfecting its measurements until she had designed the perfect bow, as aesthetically pleasing as it was accurate and deadly. It had a heavier draw weight than most of her other bows, at exactly 43.6 pounds it left her with a dull ache through her body and a satisfying pride at the deceptively difficult stamina, strength, and skill it took to wield it. She had bows that required even more strength, a hunting bow in particular with a 60 pound draw weight she obtained simply to show off in front of her father’s colleagues on a trip they took last hunting season. She showed up last minute alongside J.J., leaving their father in the position to be unable to tell Cheryl she could not come along while his business buddies laughed at the young, small girl with her unassuming traditional bow while they prepared their rifles and fancy scopes. The men marveled at the idea of having the girl join them, joking about the entertainment she would provide in her attempts to keep up. Her father's eyes burn with fury hidden behind an easy smile and remark of agreement with them, voice lacking the venom Cheryl knew Clifford Blossom was fighting so hard to swallow down. One of the larger men tried to “teach” her how she should hold the bow correctly, his entire upper body shaking in effort to draw back. When he was unable to she proceeded take it back from him, remaining silent for the next three hours while they joked about the young girl with the ridiculous weapon. They all came to a stop when they spotted a large buck 50 yards away grazing in a clearing. One of the men had yet to have his rifle ready, the loud cocking of the gun scaring the creature away, the others resigned from trying to get a clear shot on the fast moving animal even with their top of the line sights. Cheryl threw out a quick and calm “duck”, nocking and loosing her arrow effortlessly before they had even fully turned. Flying between two of them, the red fletched arrow buried itself in the animal’s eye as it ran from them, it’s dead body skidding to an instant stop 100 yards from where they stood. It took all Cheryl had to bite back a smug remark and swallow down the bile that rose in her throat at the sight of the innocent creature now laying dead in the clearing, blood splattered across the wildflowers growing among the tall grass.

She knew that coming had been a bad idea, having known full well the punishment that no doubt awaited her when the party returned to Thornhill would be executed quickly and without mercy, only sparing her pretty face for the sake of maintaining her perfect Blossom appearance. The pride shining in Jason’s eyes was almost worth the beating she got for that little stunt, having to claim to take a spontaneous spa trip the following week while she was out from school recovering from the broken ribs received from the beating that left her bedridden for three days. Jason had confessed to her in the weeks prior his hesitation towards going on the trip, their father having declared that it was time he start to become familiar with the family business and its allies. Sweet, gentle Jason hated the idea of having to possibly shoot and kill an animal, confiding in Cheryl his fear of guns and his dislike of the so called sport. Cheryl didn’t hesitate to concoct a plan to divert her father's attention from her dear twins' nervousness, ordering the bow that same day and promising J.J. that she would not abandon him in his time of need. The same bow now sat upon its own pegs just under the mounted head of the stag it killed, having served its purpose and earning its resting place. The redhead hated the gruesome wall decoration, having come into her armory secludedly located along the outskirts of thornhills vast property one day to find it taking a huge real estate of wall space. A gift from daddy, even in death reminding her of her infractions and their consequences.

She had a fondness for all of her bows, each holding a distinct memory. Her smaller ones from when she was a child first learning lay humbly along one wall, shadowed in the presence of her other adult bows, most custom made from the finest woods and materials on their own racks and in glass cases. Cheryl had a special love for traditional wooden recurve bows, their craftsmanship distinctly unique between each individual bow, the grains of the wood and fit against her hand unable to be plagiarized by any fiberglass or manmade material. She found an intimate fondness for solid body wooden bows, their sleekness and feel unequaled. She knew the arguments to be made for modern compound bows and even newer recurves, but she took pride in her iconically styled weapons, their simplicity leaving no room for excuses or lack of skill. Her bow was unforgiving, it’s produced result entirely her own making; entirely under her control. Because for everything the infamous Cheryl Bombshell seemed to be in control of there lay a deep crack hidden just under the surface, painted over with a coy smile or masked with a sharp slip of her poison laced tongue. Because Cheryl Blossom couldn’t control most things in her life. She couldn’t control the whispers that trailed after her in the hallways when her peers thought she was out of earshot, or her mother and her sexual conquests that she deemed appropriate to enjoy in all rooms of Thistle house at all hours. She couldn’t control the legacy of being the surviving twin of a brother slaughtered by their own father, whose body her mother staged to appear as though he had hung himself in the family barn, surrounded by the barrels of maple syrup and heroin he was willing to kill his own child to protect. But Cheryl could control where her arrow buried its tip, she could control how many shots she put into the targets center, how close her arrows brushed each other from an acre away with no sight. She could control the mental image of her father’s face on the target, hitting the dead center of his forehead like the bullet he put in Jason’s until her arrows bounced off of the ends of the others she’s placed where she can see the space between Clifford’s eyes when she closes her own.

With all her equipment returned to its place the red head pulled her hair into a loose bun, signing in relief at allowing herself a few moments of rest from maintaining her flawless image. She never did understand the logic behind the asinine encouragement to let one’s hair down having spent hours a day for as long as she can remember fixing and keeping her hair styled without a strand out of place and still appearing effortlessly flowing and ever perfect. The chance to pull her curls into a messy bun was a rare and precious luxury she did not often afford herself, but in the comfort of the room with weapon filled walls Cheryl let her resolve break, even if only for a moment. Her hair finally pulled out of the way she moved to stand in front of the mirror on the wall, craning her neck to the side to examine the ever present laceration. It stretched along her hair line, set just behind her ear and running almost to the back of her head, curving perfect with the growth of her red tresses. She tensed at the sight of the dried blood that had dripped into her collar, thankfully invisible in the thick black fabric of her sweater. Sighing in relief at her luck at not being caught at school Cheryl reached up, scratching harshly over the cut, watching as the already angry flesh ripped back open, only having stopped bleeding a few short hours ago. “Fuck” she murmured to herself, even more mad with herself at being so careless now at how she ripped into the traumatized skin.

The reopened wound bled freely as she watched the bright red fluid drip down her pale skin, some of it following the tracks of the dried blood spilled earlier today, some dripping down new paths. One trickle made its way along the curve of her neck, dipping into the hollow of her throat and disappearing into the high collar of her sweater. Through the years Cheryl had lots of different places that she would nurse the pain from; digging her nails into the blisters on the back of her ankles from the pretty, painful shoes she wore as a child, moving on as she grew older and the scar tissue there making it harder and harder to feed her craving. For a while it was the blister that formed on the inside of her pointer finger from where she rested her drawing pencils too firmly, that too forming a callus quickly. When that was deemed unladylike she was forced to have it “fixed”, the callus removed and a thin scar and permanent dip in her finger taking its place, making it always slightly uncomfortable to hold a pencil after the doctor did a poor job at trying to remove it with a too sharp scalpel. Cheryl had lots of those kinds of scars, the ones entirely too small of anyone to notice or ask after even if they did, but abundant and individually distinct to only her. Most where her mothers doing, some were her fathers, but this one, this thin bleeding line was hers. She had been practicing her archery left handed after the hunting trip, her right shoulder too stiff from the beating she received to be able to draw properly, leaving her the only option of shooting with her left. The change in pattern and movement left her awkward and clumsy, pulling a sharpened arrow from her back quiver on the left side instead of her well practiced right. The action that was usually thoughtless and committed to muscle memory was quite the opposite on her left, drawing the arrow tip at an odd angle and unintentionally dragging it along her hairline on the back of her head, the quick movement cutting a clean and thin but surprisingly deep slice in her skin. It bleed for hours and hours after, matting her red hair against her neck, only stopping after she had gone through an alarming amount or gauze in an attempt to staunch the bleeding. Since then she had made a habit of running a sharpened inner edge of her nail along the mark, reopening the wound easily with a precise and practiced movement. Her constant reopening of it has cause the wound to turn from what no doubt would have been a definite but mild scar into an angry cluster of thickened and ugly scar tissue. Cheryl knew that her constant disruption of its healing only left her worse off and it was now hopeless of ever living without that mark, but its constant ache and temptation was too great to ignore. Everyone has their vices she thought, hers just so happened to be paid in blood.

The walk back to thistle house was long and thoughtless, her soft foot falls the only sound aside from the natural disquiet of the grounds around her. Entering through the maids quarters Cheryl made her way up the stairs silently, slipping into the house and around her mother effortlessly. With her bedroom door latched and locked the Vixen made her way to the ensuite while peeling off layers, dropping them as she goes. Entering the bathroom and bending over stiffly she turned the shiny chrome knob of the water faucet on the old fashioned tub, the pipes protesting loudly before sputtering out steaming hot water. One of the few luxuries behind the old estate was that the water would come out at near boiling temperatures almost instantly, the old water heater being without any electric monitor or regulator to prevent it from becoming dangerously hot. Cheryl loved it, even if it has resulted in more than a few bad burns that would sometimes leave angry red boils when she pushed her limits too far. Twisting the cold knob a bit she allowed some cool water to mix in, counteracting the no doubt scalding hot water quickly filling the claw footed porcelain tub. Standing straight again with a pained groan the redhead quickly removed the rest of her clothes, pulling off her sheer pantyhoes from her sore legs and peeling the sweater from her skin, the cashmere glued to her with dried blood. From a drawer Cheryl pulled out what she needed, quickly going through the first half of her skin care routine, taking off her fake lashes and wiping off her makeup, rubbing harshly at her skin to remove the layers and layers of foundation. It took her an entire extra wipe to remove her trademark red lipstick, the stubborn formula requiring extra diligence to be taken off. With all traces of makeup removed she quickly washed her face, patting it dry and looking into the mirror again, its edges starting to fog over.

Cheryl looked somehow so much younger and older than her true age, her face holding familiar and still foreign features. Some things remained the same: her plump lips, now swollen and irritated, that she worked diligently to always have accentuated despite not actually being fond of them. She had always thought them to be too big and hated the fact that the bow of her lips raised a fraction of a millimeter too high on one side. Her lashes and brows while naturally thin looked almost nonexistent without makeup, the hairs so blond they looked translucent. As a child whenever they left Thornhill or were expecting guests her mother would make her sit on a hard, cold stool while she grabbed harshly at Cheryl’s chin, gripping it tightly while expertly drawing perfectly shaped brows onto the young girls face, coloring them in to match her light ginger hair. Jason, much like Archie Andrews, was born with darker brows even as a child, perfectly shaped and framing his face, accentuating his strong bone structure. Cheryl was not so lucky, having to fill them in every day, learning how to do it as young as possible to escape the daily route of having to endure her mother’s harsh hand and biting remarks about the inconvenience. She spent a long time staring at her own reflection, searching for the same thing she never found.

Her skin ached, now splotchy and red from rubbing too harshly. Her eyes were sunken into her skull from long term lack of sleep, rimmed red and under eyes puffy and a startlingly dark color against the redheads fair complexion. _If only they could see the infamous Cheryl Bombshell now…_ she thought, barely able to recognize herself without her war paint and designer armor. The thought of what her fellow students might say at the look of her now, stripped of her polish and shine, standing bare and alone in the bathroom filling quickly with steam made her scoff internally. The image of their horrified expressions at her clean face and bloodied neck, slumped posture and jutting bones, scarred skin and tired eyes made Cheryl resent them even more.

**Author's Note:**

> If think you that this hot piece of garbage is worth adding onto let me know! I'd like to write an entire choni fic but I have no idea if it's worth it. I have absolutely no experience writing so if you have any tips they would be greatly appreciated!


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